My father pointed toward the file.
“That paper concerns Olivia.
It does not erase blood.”
“No,” Sigard said.
“It doesn’t.”
For a moment, my father seemed relieved.
Then Sigard continued.
“It also doesn’t create a relationship with me.”
My mother stepped closer to him.
“We didn’t know you.”
Sigard’s face remained calm.
“You knew I existed.”
She froze.
I had wondered whether he would say it.
Because that was the part their messages had carefully avoided.
They had known.
Not every detail, perhaps.
Not every school, every birthday, every fever, every exam.
But they knew I had a son.
Years earlier, after Sigard was born, I had sent one letter.
Only one.
I had not asked for money.
I had not asked to return home.
I had sent a photograph and written that they had a grandson.
There was no response.
The photograph came back inside the same envelope.
Unopened at first glance, except the flap had clearly been disturbed and resealed.
I kept that too.
Not out of revenge.
Out of disbelief.
Lance reached into the folder again.
My mother’s eyes followed his hand.
He removed the old envelope.
Her face lost color.
My father whispered her name.
“Don’t.”
That single word told Sigard everything before Lance said anything.
Sigard turned to me.
“That’s the letter?”
“Yes.”
My mother shook her head quickly.
“We received many things over the years.
I don’t remember every envelope.”
Lance turned it over without handing it to her.
My father’s handwriting was on the front.
Returned to sender.
Sigard stared at it for several seconds.
My mother looked from him to me.
“Olivia, you have to understand.
Your father was angry.
We thought contact would reopen everything.”
“You sent my son’s photograph back,” I said.
It was the first accusation I had made since they arrived.
She swallowed.
“We made mistakes.”
My father reacted immediately.
